Archive of Our Own

Marilyn Monroe.

George was staring at a picture of Marilyn Monroe, blasted a mere 2000x2000 pixels on his computer screen, blaring and beautiful. 

She’s sitting there, perplexed, with a dazzling smile and an even more dazzling dress, flowing beneath her palms in front of a camera, grin stretched wide but simple, short and cute. Her skin is pale, lipstick ruby red and teeth pearly white. 

He’s been staring at this photo for what felt like hours, only to be a range of 5 minutes. The dedicated search on the internet was a big mistake to haunt his mystifying dreams, scattered around his room where skirts were laid out on the floor and his bed, projecting his feminine dream with golden want. 

Marilyn smiles so pretty, tongue resting in her mouth daring to accompany her smile. She was pretty, George knew that. She was a long forgotten childhood crush—once he figured out he was gay—but it was always known that she was beautiful, pure and apart of a fantasy many would hope to endure.

But below her face, below her pristine features that made her smile stretch as it did, is what lies more important to George’s attention. 

Silk sleeves that pulled up along her shoulders, holding up her chest with ease and resting on her skin featherlight. The corset of fabric that wraps around her belly with bounding security, and George can only hope that it’s comfortable, so gently heaped around her thin torso. 

The flowy part of her outfit was bursting with the prop of purposeful wind, out and wide around her hands as she smiled and pushed it down, playful aura bouncing off the digital walls. It’s white and magnificent, her coy grin obvious with the intention to rip away every person’s fascination with what lies beneath the flowing fabric. 

But George didn’t care about that. He wasn’t particularly interested in her ivory skin, arms and legs pointed to entrance, nor was he in awe of her expression, alluring and forever shameless.

What really peaked his interest, his eyes dawned with sympathy and sadness as he stared, was her flowy, extraordinary dress. 

If George had a crush on anything now, it would be the dress. The long length of silk caressing her body and legs, a peak of fashion that George had desperate hands for. He yearned to wear a material so thick but comfortable and perfect as he walked around his own house, confident and smug to draw attention. Especially Dream’s, if anyone. 

George had settled for pencil skirts, for cropped t’s and halter tops that showed off his shoulders to the world (to Dream). 

But combining the two didn’t feel right. It was too risky, too wrong for his body shape, his confidence, as much as he wanted to determinate toxic masculinity and wear whatever the hell he wanted to, a dress was just too much. 

And it was really sad, because he was staring at a picture of Marilyn Monroe who was flaunting whilst he was sulking. He didn’t want her dress in specific, the one that was big and poufy as it blew around in all sorts of directions. He could go for anything really, tight, fitting, relaxed or outgoing. But that’s why he was struggling—because the confidence wasn’t there. He didn’t know if that was his style.

And the fear of messing everything up was growing, so much that his bank account was weeping for a large deduction, all for a dress to suit his appeals. 

It had been weeks of the decision sitting on his mind, going back and forth between whether buying a dress was worth it or not. He kept this all from his boyfriend, unsure of how he would feel about it, especially with George's conflicting views when it came to the most feminine piece of clothing he had ever considered. George wasn't really worried about Dream, though. He was worried about himself.

And still, he double checked everything holding him against the idea, pulling up pictures of women from Vogue, from models to celebrities of every ethnicity and background. Once he is (almost) fully convinced, he begins searching online. Marilyn Monroe disappears from view when he opens a new tab, and cringes when he types, “pretty dresses.”

A couple links pop up alongside pictures of dresses of all colors. Some are short and bouncy, others are more situated and fitting. George holds his breath, clicking a random link. He’s immediately sent to a website, an online shop filled with a parade of different dresses. They look aesthetically pleasing, worn on models that are all pretty much the same body-type, colored variously. It feels wrong scrolling, because he’s a man, and for years he’s been told that girls wear dresses and boys cannot.

But now he’s here, entrusting in a clothing shop with dresses of all shapes and sizes knowing that whoever is behind the screen processing his order, can’t judge if this is actually, officially wrong or not. It feels safer, safe enough for him to scroll without feeling awkward.

It is definitely out of his comfort zone, but it feels nice doing something different. He wants to look pretty.

A cute dress catches his attention, in five different colors, two of those being black and white. It’s a short, relatively fitting one, airy at the bottom and not detailed with too much lace, but fluffed at the shoulders for it to look nice. The chest isn’t made to flatter breasts, and that feels inclusive enough that George has to hold back a smile as he observes it. 

Solid Tie Back Flounce Hem Dress.

He switches pictures and finds that the back is tied nicely, holding the sleeves together. So, some skin would be shown.

Perhaps that’s not so bad. 

He tries not to think about it too deeply as he selects size large and adds it to his bag, switching over to the checkout and ordering it before regrets can fill his mind in a sand dune of worry. He ordered a white one, confident it would make his hair and eyes pop out, his skin a similar shade of caramel but kind enough to make the fabric compliment him with no issues. He almost felt kind of dizzy, doing this. He was going to wear a dress. 

It’s shipping in one week. 

From the other room, he suddenly hears the door shut, and George smiles on the brim of sinister. Dream’s muffled, honey voice echoes through the door and this new feeling of mischief travels through George’s bones at the idea of doing this behind his boyfriend’s back. 

Maybe he could surprise Dream. He bets that he would like it. Dream has subtly mentioned his intrigue when it came to dresses, but it wasn’t something he would ever consider wearing.

This could be the best gift for his boyfriend ever. And it was certainly brave, considering George had never worn a dress before—and never planned to before this. His interest was piqued, and now he’s going to look nice for himself and Dream. It was perfect. 

So with a nervous smile, George exits the room and puts on his best poker face, trying to forget all about his secret purchase when he goes to approach Dream. 

Spoiler alert: He doesn’t.

❄ ❄ ❄

When the doorbell rings on designated delivery day, George sprints to the front door. Dream's out currently, picking up some food for the two of them who had a 'long' day of lounging around wrapped in blankets, putting on movies to ease the boredom that was never in fact, eased. 

But now George had a box in his hand, carrying the very reason why the boredom was sizzling away as he skipped to his bedroom, a nervous grin on his face. 

He had planned it out pretty perfectly, if you asked George. And if anybody could see him, they'd say he was a pretty good liar. It wasn't all that hard to tell Dream he was hungry with a pleading face, knowing exactly when the package was going to come because the delivery service had been unpurposely kind to him during the whole process. 

He had to be absolutely sure that the timing was going to work out, but he was genuinely confident when it came to trusting his instincts in time with being logical. 

He's probably thinking more than he should, but he just can't help it. This is new and so exciting. 

So his heart feels fireworks when the dress is delivered, now in his hands as he stands at the entrance of his bedroom, his stand-up mirror just waiting to see George's reflection when he models his new outfit.

He quickly puts the box on his bed and grabs some scissors, slowly puncturing the box where the seam is taped and he cuts it open. Inside is a bag with fabric folded tightly, radiating protected beauty strapped together like a virtue. It feel like it's not for him, he feels like it's a gift for his sister or his mother, something precious that carries a load of promises, marriage, love, sincerity—it has it all.

But he opens it anyway, and feels like this could be a gift for him, too. 

The bag is zipped open, brand lettered on the front, simple for what's inside. He pulls out the white cotton fabric and unfolds it to see it in all its glory. There's a strand of material that falls attached to the mold, two actually, twins dangling gracefully. He remembers the photo, and realizes it's the tie for the back of the dress. It's a bit wrinkled, but it has been stuffed in a box all day, so he couldn't blame the thing. 

Yet it was all coming alive in his hands right now, so there was no time for an iron. 

When it falls in front of him, it looks nice, strewn together reasonably and when he holds it too his chest, it falls high on his thighs. It worries him for a second, before it clicks that maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe it'll be longer when he puts it on. It is a dress, after all. They're supposed to be long. 

He lays it out on the bed quickly, feeling rushed as he starts stripping, removing his shirt and jeans until he's only in boxers and socks. The socks are white, so it should match relatively well with the dress. And maybe if he was feeling flirty, he could put on some shoes and pair it with the dress to show it to Dream, if all goes well of course. 

He picks up the dress again and lifts it from underneath, holding his breath and putting it over his shoulders so the material slots over his body. He easily finds the hole where his head goes and it tenderly finds its way through, considering the hole is much bigger compared to the sleeves. He looks to the mirror and laughs at how it already made his hair messy, and remembers he can't fix it when the dress hides his arms that are stuck to his body. 

It's definitely snug, that's for sure. And with the way it's twisted on his body, the front hangs a bit low, exposing his whole collarbone. But again, he has to remind himself that it'll be fine when he can adjust it better once the whole thing is on. 

Wiggling upward, his arms lift to search for the sleeves, and then he decides it's easier to do one arm at a time. He stretches his torso as he lifts his arm upward directed towards the poufy, white sleeve. The seam where it connects to the sleeve is a bit tight to fit through, but he manages to slip a tan arm through the slot with not many issues. The other one follows as soon as possible. 

Once both of his arms are through, he pulls them over and drags at the bottom hem of dress the best he can to pull it further down his body, which unfortunately isn't that far.

It's comfortable, the cotton soft on his skin, just as he would imagine. It's tight in some areas, but flowy around his thighs, skimpy and short. He would've preferred it longer.

But there's time running out, and Dream is soon to be here, so he turns toward the mirror with his throat tight as he holds his breath. He opens his eyes—

It is definitely... not what he expected. 

To be fair, he couldn't see much looking down at himself from before, so it makes sense that it looks completely different now that he can see the whole length of his body in the reflection.

But he didn't think it would look so... small. So unnaturally feminine in a way that's horribly forced. 

The fabric feels warm and snug around his body, but the sleeves look like they're squeezing him, high and pinched on his shoulders. 

Oh, he forgot to tie it.

Maybe that's why it doesn't look right.

Shrugging of the worry, George turns around and reaches around as far as he can for the two dangling strands, which aren't too hard to find considering his lanky arm-length. It's a bit hard to tie, but he tries his best until it fits a little better and his back feels more covered. But when he turns around again, nothing much has changed. If anything, the sleeves look tighter, and the opening on his chest lifts an inch higher, but still drooping low so it nearly exposes his nipples.

A sour feeling rises in his stomach at the sight, disappointment and confusion swirling as a pond that flutters in the pit of his gut. His hands rise to fiddle with the collar that's falling and he holds it higher, shrugging his shoulders a bit to make weight of the extra fabric. But when he lets go, it falls again and opens wide in a way that looks way too wrong.

He steps back a little bit, closer to his bed and twists his hips, the fabric lifting in the air a little too high to the point where you can see a glimpse of black boxers underneath, and every time he twists, it shows just a little bit more. 

This cannot be right.

Frowning, he slides his hands down the flouncy bottom and twists a leg to pose, curling his hair behind his ears and smiling, but nothing seems to look exactly how he wants. Bitterness crawls up his spine and his mouth twists with uncertainty.

Is it because I'm a man? 

Because apparently a large wasn't large enough for it to fit him, and even though it looked like the front was envious to both men and women, not accompanying for breasts, did in fact need support for it to fit on the top of his shoulders without dropping too far below his chest. It was sagging when it was supposed to be fitting. He felt like a poorly dressed doll. 

Insecurity bombarded him like a wave, harsh as his heart crumbled at the mere sight of him looking bad in the dress that looked so pretty inside the box. 

And to think he was excited for this made him feel like an idiot.

Men can't wear dresses.

And before he could control it, hot tears burned at the corners of his eyes, forming at the rim of mocha eyes and overwhelming his sense of sight with intense blurriness. It's ridiculous he's crying at something like this, but it all folds together with the frustration and skepticism that he can't help but fall back onto the bed, sitting down with caution before quickly wiping away the tears that fall fast from his eyes. His chest tightens each time he sniffles, trying so hard to gain composure but whenever he glances at the mirror it haunts all over again. 

Dream can't see you like this, either. He'll think you're a baby, perhaps you are.

George groans when his throat gets tighter and a hue of crimson overcomes his face the more he chokes back tears, standing up to fetch a tissue from their nightstand. He wipes his face down and loosens up a bit, eventually finding a steady pace of breathing as he holds alabaster cheeks through his palms. 

The dress still sits innocently on his body, wrapped up in an uncomfortable way that makes George want to rip it up and burn it. Well—maybe that's a bit harsh, but there's not much else he can feel with the emotion taking over his whole cowering mind.

His head turns to the clock on the other nightstand and it's been 20 minutes, so Dream should be here really soon. 

Feeling a lite of rush swallow him whole, George turns towards his disregarded clothes on the floor and immediately starts undressing. It becomes faintly obvious that the dress was definitely too small, even thought the chest part of the ensemble was so large, it almost didn't make any sense.

But he tried his hardest to ignore it and push it away, upset and stressed that it would just be best to forget. 

The pristine, flowy dress is thrown to the back of the closet, somewhere unknown as George rushes to put his hoodie and sweatpants on again, Marilyn Monroe dream tossed away and he quickly goes his computer to close out of the picture tab of her, too. It feels like a rollercoaster of emotions, as if he'll do anything to remove the whole situation from his mind as grey cotton runs over his legs and even the slightest idea of wearing a skirt is desperately thrown away. 

Maybe he's being dramatic.

In the midst of rolling his eyes, he hears a car pull up to the driveway, engine muffled loud and intruding. He huffs a shallow breath and removes himself from the bedroom, putting on a pretend side-grin as he sits down at the couch and pulls out his phone. It's a poor attempt at remaining calm, but he was confident he could toughen this out. He was a good actor. 

When the door clicks open, the smell of food fills the room and thankfully it eases a more genuine smile to George's face. Still not enough to validate reality, though. 

"Hey baby," Dream sighs as he settles into the kitchen, "what have you been doing?"

George twists his head and smiles gently. "Just sitting here."

"Wonderful," the blond responds and gestures at the food bag radiating warm heat on the island. "Ready to eat?" And yes, he really is.

George nods meekly and stands up from the couch on weak legs, crossing over the living room to stand next to Dream who's opening the food bag on the island, talking about his day with pride. "There was this lady at the checkout who was so so kind, and we had a good chat about cats for a while. I told her about Patches and she told me about her fat kitty—like Charles or something, I dunno. Something dumb," Dream rambles off as he places food aside and smiles, joy and jubilant like usual. 

George isn't listening. His eyes burn on Dream's moving fingers, unable to focus on anything else really. Because the thought of falling into a headspace of insecurities and accusations of his beauty would mentally destroy him, and he's already upset enough, standing next to his boyfriend, trying to hide the pain in his face the best that he can.

But like any good boyfriend, Dream notices.

"George?" His hands are stuck out, holding a container of the brunet's burger, probably gesturing to George this entire time. "You okay?"

George snaps out of it and his vision clears out as he grabs the container quickly, smiling up at him before turning around back to the table. He winces as soon as he turns around and mutters a quiet, "sorry, yeah I'm fine."

He can feel Dream's confused expression across the room as it glowers, until he gets his own food and turns around to show the exact expression George was imagining. 

"Miss me? Is that it?"

George snorts, nodding unbelievably with a hum, opening his box and acting like he didn't hear the steady exhale from the other. 

They eat in a relatively calm silence. Well, for Dream, because for George it feels like every part of him is screaming at him for not looking right. For not doing a good job at breaking standards, or looking confident. Dream, of course, feels the need to point it out, his own body screaming to make sure George is okay, no matter the response he got moments before. 

"George, are you sure you're alright?" He asks after a bit, stuffing another bite into his mouth from his salad. George notes his decision of ordering a burger, probably unhealthy, while Dream was eating vegetables and pork for protein. The voices scream at him harder. 

"Yes," he answers, this time with a little more enunciation and a pointed look into the jade irises peering at him with caution. But the tone didn't seem very convicting. It just seemed defensive. 

Dream deadpans him with a more serious glare, putting down his fork and straightening his posture. "You're obviously not fine."

It's so stern that George's stomach turns, head pounding. "I—" his voice gets caught in his throat, the universe giving him a chance to debate his answer. He looks down at his food and then looks back up at Dream reassuringly. "Can't you just believe I'm okay?" His soft smile is sinisterly sly, fake, and twisted.

God, and when has George ever said that before?

Dream quirks an eyebrow again, crossing his arms and observing the brunet. "You're barely eating and you're staring daggers at the table. I know when something's up, George."

George's face tightens, unsure if he even wants to speak about what's making him upset. There's no point in lying anymore, hiding it. But he also wants to never relive those feelings ever again. He wants Dream to never question it and he wants to forget the dress even exists in the first place.

But it hurts so much. 

George grasps the burger a little bit tighter, knuckles slowly turning red. "I'm fine." He repeats, tone going darker, softer but enough to reflect his annoyance. Dream huffs, stubbornly.

"Did I do something?"

God and that even hurts more. 

George shakes his head immediately, and goes to continue further, "There's nothing wrong, and I'd prefer not to talk about my day right now."

Dream lightly scoffs. "That's even more suspicious, idiot."

George rolls his eyes, easily passing over the name and takes a bite of his burger with a harsh bite. But it doesn't matter because his teeth were used to gritting that it couldn't possibly hurt. 

A moment ticks by, Dream staring at his own salad, and then back at George. George feels like he's at a zoo, being stared at constantly, observed from all angles. Unable to make the wrong move.

Dream sighs again, and George knows exactly what's coming. "George—"

"Ugh— Can you just—" George pushes his burger away, squeezing his eyes shut with frustration as he smoothes out his hair quickly, "I'm fine Dream now can you please stop worrying about me?"

There's tears in his eyes now, glimmering and small but making the brown shade stand out more than Dream's green. Everything lingers, the incident, the dress, the way his body looked in the dress, and now George's breathing is quick and short, cheeks hot and eyes leaking.

Dream's mouth gapes open and his pupils are glossed in concern as he pushes his own salad to the side. George gets up without a second thought. "I— I'm not hungry anymore," he croaks and walks down the hall in socked feet that slide against the wooden floors. The sounds of Dream coming after him is muffled as he sniffs and pushes tears away, sliding into their room and mentally screaming back at the voices and the anxiety creeping into his brain. 

“George— wh—” Dream steps into the room, red faced and everything as he pushes on the door and stumbles, stopping immediately when he sees George at the foot of his bed, crouched with his hands wiping wet tears away. “What’s wrong?”

As soon as the words slip out of his mouth, he realizes that it’s not the best thing to say, so he lunges forward onto the floor and pulls the brunette into his arms. George hesitantly leans into it, letting his weak body melt into Dream’s warmth. It eases him for a moment, before doubt fills him again and he’s breaking further in Dream’s arms. 

Thankfully, Dream coos and caresses, humming reassurances into his hair with tight arms wrapped around his sides, keeping him steady. It really shouldn’t be a big thing to cry about, as much as he’s breaking down, but he can’t help it when Dream’s so sweet to him and opening up his emotions even more. 

“Can we go to bed?” Dream asks softly, and George lifts his head so his cheek is poked by Dream’s shoulder. He nods meekly, so Dream quickly scoops him up and carefully moves them to the bed. As soon as Dream lays down beside him, he curls into his side with a softer frown and an easier sniffle. 

“‘M sorry,” George mumbles into his chest, shoving his face into his shirt with embarrassment. His voice is cracked but luckily it’s muffled enough to which it’s almost unnoticeable.

“For what?” Dream almost laughs, “You have nothing to be sorry for, my love,” he continues, holding George tighter just how he knows he likes it.

George is greeted with the Dream’s familiar scent, coffee and pine all mixed into a cologne he feels the most comfortable with. He's warm too, and even though George should explain the situation, all he wants to do is cuddle up into the blond and smudge his face into darkness. 

But whenever he shuts his eyes too tight, he can see himself standing ugly in the mirror, grossed out with his oddly proportional reflection wearing a dress that does not look right, and he can’t help but think that it never will. 

“Baby,” Dream pets him with steady fingers, rubbing over his waist with care. George kind of wants to cry more. “You need to tell me what’s wrong, or else I can’t help you.”

The brunet sniffles again into his shirt, and teasingly rubs his nose into the fabric with a weak smirk. Dream scoffs playfully, but quickly returns to his concerned expression. 

A choked up sob makes its way up George’s throat again as he croaks, “T-Trying,” followed by a hiccup as he sighs pitifully at the embarrassing noise.  

“Good boy,” Dream whispers, cradling him closer to lean in and to kiss his forehead. “You can talk to me whenever you’re ready George.”

God, it was sick how sweet Dream was. How could he deserve such a good man like this?

It takes a few minutes of comfort for George to calm down and center his thoughts on Dream and Dream only, but time goes by, and silence fills quick. To prevent the unelicited sniffles, George syncs his breathing with the blond until the tears are stained into his cheeks and his eyes are no longer blue, but an offhanded red. 

And the embarrassment waits no time to rise and take over his disappointment. 

“I’m ready,” George says quietly, sitting up slowly so Dream removes himself from their close hold. He leaves a hand around the boy’s waist and keeps him a good distance so he can move a strand of chestnut out of his eyes with a soft, welcoming smile. George’s heart aches at the gesture, leaning into Dream's fleeting touch.

A moment later, George squeezes his eyes and sighs. "I bought a dress."

It's an easy start, and it already doesn't feel good mentioning it. But Dream's eyes don't widen a lot, calmly keeping by George's side, face relaxed. He doesn't speak. 

"And, well," George's throat is wet and stuffy, but his mind falls into place. After all, he did say he was ready. "It didn't look very good. I— it looked horrible, I just—" his head falls back with frustration, and then straightening again to stare at Dream's neck, not at his eyes, and definitely not at the closet behind him. "I thought I would look pretty, or something. And I didn't."

The secret is long past his lips now, exposed and open for a response. Dream's eyebrows are pinched with concern as he looks down into George's lap, frowning.

"Where is it?"

The hand on George's waist is drawing circles; George hadn't noticed it until now, soft and undisturbing. "It's... in the back of the closet."

Dream hums, placing a short kiss on the brunet's temple. It causes George to look in that direction, eyes connecting, smiling softly. 

"You didn't want me to see?" Dream asks, honest. George's face twists. 

Raw lips gape open, and close again, as George thinks. "I wanted you to, I mean— it was gonna be a surprise."

"And it didn't go your way?" Dream says in the nicest way possible.

George shakes his head. 

Dream frowns again, gripping George's hip more firmly as he tugs him closer, pulling him into a hug, one that lasts longer. One that lasts longer than the short kisses, one that could last for an eternity.

Weak arms pull Dream in closer from the back, stuffing his cheek into Dream's chest with a loaded sigh. He won't cry, but the vulnerability seeps out through his heart that connects with the other. He feels safer, now. Intact.

Dream could build him up from the ground in minutes, like no problem. A golden sun lifting the whole sky with its autumn-orange rays.

However, George can tell there's something else Dream wants to say, wants to ask. He's itching for it, his fingers twitch in every soothing movement rubbing up George's back. His breathing is contemplated rather than collected and slow. 

The brunet pulls away and looks up at his boyfriend. "What are you thinking?" He inquires, voice quiet. 

The blond tilts his chin contemplating his own answer as he bites the inside of his cheek. "If I'm being honest," he starts carefully, "I want to see the dress. I want to see you in the dress— but the dress by itself is fine too."

George feels blank, but sparked by so much adoration at the same time. Dream speaks of awkward tongues yet so adorable that George's chest pounds when he requests something with so much timidity imbedded into his tone. 

He relaxes his hands in his lap and plays with the hem of his shirt. "You can see the dress," he answers, as if it was obvious. "But— uh, maybe not me in the dress, if that's alright."

Dream smiles big, rosy cheeks making an appearance again. He tugs George into him with a rushed peck to his lips, backing away giddy like a puppy. "Of course that's alright," and George can barely process Dream getting out of the bed and heading over to the closet. Even though George is plagued with the traumatic dress experience, he can't help but feel so in love with his boyfriend's antics. 

George frowns and he slides off the bed, heading to sit on the front edge of it where he can see Dream bent over into the closet, rummaging through it. And he finds it quite easily, laying spread against some box, or the floor, George can't really tell. He doesn't turn around just yet, holding it in front of him and letting it unfold and dangle.

A gulp forms in George's throat the longer Dream doesn't respond.

"George? Are you kidding?" The words leave his mouth like the drop of a pin, George immediately softening. He starts to feel the anxiety grow on his skin, until Dream turns around with the dumbest smile in the world. "This dress is literally shit!"

The statement is so unexpected that George's mouth almost drops completely. Instead, his lips are gaping, jaw slacked, and eyes screwing together with confusion. "What? What do you mean?"

His stuttering, or just the situation in general, elicits a careless laugh from Dream's mouth as he looks at the dress again, holding it in the air aligned with his shoulders. "Where did you buy this? It looks like it costs $10 max."

George's heart twinges, but he isn't sure if it's with hurt or confusion. "I— I don't know, just online." He looks down at his fingers with a worried, confused look. Dream steps closer and throws the dress on the bed. He takes a seat next to George and lightly grab's the brunet's chin between his fingers and turns it towards his face.

Before he knows it, George is being brought into a kiss, short and loving. 

"George," Dream sighs into his lips before he backs away, "the dress you bought was literally meant for women to wear. There was no way it would look good on you, unless you had a fitted, you know?"

The brunet's lips press together while he processes it, still a bit confused. "B-But—"

"George no, don't say 'but'," Dream laughs, feeling around George's cheeks and holding him there instead to keep their gazes locked. "Baby, how much was the dress?"

It takes a second, but squeamishly, George stammers, "like $20..."

Dream doesn't really answer for a second, again, because the answer still goes through his brain as he thinks of a way to respond— not to sound too harsh, too disappointed. But he wasn't disappointed, he couldn't be, right?—

"No wonder you don't look good in it.. It's not you, it's the dress," Dream distances them again with a careful smile, putting his hands into his lap again. "Idiot."

A sputter quickly slips from George's mouth and he rolls his eyes, looking away and feeling a wash of pink begin to scorn his cheeks. "W-Whatever," he chokes barely biting back the smile that starts on his face. It's not enough to make him feel better, but his heart lifts by a mile and that's enough for him to feel comfortable around Dream again, rather than melting rotten in his mind. "It's the first one I saw that I liked, and I didn't really know what to do—"

"Hey," Dream whispers, interrupting him. Warm hands take George's to hold politely. "It's okay. But if you want any dress, you have to look deeper. You can't just choose one that looks good, especially one that's $20 and looks like a fucking doll—"

"Shut up," George breaks their hands free with a scoff and lightly shoves the blond. Dream chuckles, leaning into George with a playful, annoying look on his face. George wants to kiss it away until he's smiling dumb instead of dumbly at George. 

Until Dream lifts his head not only a second later, features relaxing and eyes softening. The smile has left, just as George asked, but not exactly how he wanted.

The blond looks behind him, towards the open door, then back at George, when a devious grin slyly rises to his face. "I have an idea." He says. George raises an eyebrow. "It'll make you feel better."

"I mean, if that means cuddling until I'm asleep, I'm down for that," George comments and already starts climbing further onto the bed. But before he can even reach the center, Dream has a hand placed on his knee, making him pause.

"No." It's not cold, not mean, but reasonably monotone. "Uh— I mean, we have to leave the house, though. But I have an idea—"

"Dream," George whines softly, "I'm in my pajamas."

And by pajamas, he means grey sweatpants and Dream's hoodie with nothing underneath, but it still counts and he's too comfortable to want to change into anything else. 

But Dream pleads with kindness, and with a real twinge of need clawing at his throat that George can't help but notice. 

"George c'mon, I swear it'll make you feel so much better. I promise," he hooks a palm under George's knee and pulls him forward until the brunet falls onto his back with a surprised hiss. "Do you trust me?"

The brit scoffs, sitting up. "Not when you drag me down the bed like a sack of potatoes with your big man hands, no."

"Okay okay," Dream laughs, carefully touching him to pull him closer as he scoots on the bed a little more. "But seriously, it'll be worth it. Let's go get dressed."

And whether Dream has to pull up a whining George off the bed until he's kissing him breathless as a tactic to convince him, George won't admit that. But eventually he's moving into the closet and fetching out some better clothes as he sulks around with a mourning line for a mouth. He does feel a little bit better, but the bitter taste of looking like he did earlier still sits on his tongue, toxic and gross. There would have to be some real confidence booster therapy to make him feel better after all of that turning his mood sour. 

And to be perfectly honest, he feels a bit nervous getting into the passenger's seat of Dream's car, the engine turning on whilst he makes himself comfortable in the chair. He tries to let the engine rumbling soothe him, but anxiety thrums at the bottom of his stomach and he has a feeling it won't go away anytime soon.

Dream must've noticed at some point, because George feels a hand grab his own and interlace their fingers on top George's thigh. George doesn't look at him when he smiles, releasing a well-needed breath and looking out the window.

They pass familiar streets, familiar places. But Dream makes one particular turn into a shopping center they don't usually head into that often. But George doesn't look around too much, partially distracted by the warmth of Dream's hand gripping his own and the kids playing across the street with smiles bigger than George's could ever be. 

Before he knows it, the car is turning off, and a tall, cute man comes over to George's side to open his door, a gracious, prepared grin spread on his face. They get out in silence, shutting the doors, and George starts following the blond where he heads forward.

In the midst of it, Dream pulls him close, their two warmth's becoming one, one that eases the temperate beat of George's heart. He feels much better, now. More worried of what Dream has planned now more than anything. 

They walk and walk down the street of shops, mindlessly tapping against the concrete, staying tight like boyfriends do. Until something catches George's eye, or someone, two someone's perhaps. Two someone's that aren't moving through tainted widows, tall, pale bodies that are oddly still—

Oh, they're mannequins.

And more importantly, they're wearing dresses.

George stares at the sight, stopping in his step with a confused look strewn through his eyebrows. "Where are we?" He addresses, voice meek and somehow breathless.

But nothing more than silence comes from the blond, continuing with a hand small on George's lower back, guiding him forward again. His grin never leaves, an attempt to be reassuring, so George tries his best to accept it as he's walked up to the door. 

He doesn't expect them to be automatic, and nearly flinches backward when it slides open with ease, embarrassment quickly crowding him. But Dream holds on and stifles a chuckle, smiling warmly and drawing him in more, comfort beginning to dawn harder where his heart rests. 

The bright lights of the place—

"It's a boutique," Dream speaks out loud, and finally turns to George, where their eyes meet easily. "They can do so much here with dresses, I think it would be wonderful."

The bright lights of the boutique beam into George's face with porcelain glow, tinted marigold and titanium as it shines down on his cheekbones. He looks up and above there's fancy lights hung about, decorating the ceiling with a strobe effect that paints its surface gentle. And then George looks into the place, he looks around, and it then clicks how truly expensive this shop must be. 

All these dresses, strapped on tall mannequins and hung high on hangers that separate them to keep their sparkles detached, lace and everything filling every corner. George feels like he's in heaven, a heaven incredibly rich and blessed with linen gold.

It makes him hesitant. Because how could they afford this? 

"Dream—" George blurts as he looks up, but the tightening of his protective arm cuts him off and leaves him with gaping lips. 

Veridian eyes stare down at him like a shield, intentful with his gaze. "Hey," he whispers, attaching him to his hip. "Trust me."

The words sit heavy and George feels it, feels it pushing into his chest, aching for his heart to know. He has to, he has to do this. He is surrounded by everything he's ever wanted. And Dream took him there.

Drawn in by his boyfriend's assurance, George gulps and nods, not giving it another forbidding thought.

Upon their entry, a kind voice pulls George's attention when a kind man walks up to them. He's wearing a striped sweater, ripped jeans and platform boots, approaching boldly. "Hi, welcome! How may we help you?"

His tone sounds the least judgmental, grinning with his own pearly whites, cheekbones tilted up to show his kindness. George tries to relax.

"Hi!" Dream greets and grins himself, scanning the room with inquiry. "I think we're here to try on some dresses, trying to change our wardrobe a little bit, but all in good fun," and an elbow pokes out to nudge George, who shoots a look at Dream until he looks back to the employee nervously. 

"Y-Yeah, I've been interested in wearing a dress," George adds, and he can feel a new waft of red take over his skin. 

The man's endearing look never changes, nodding in agreement. "Ah great! We'd love to get you fitted and see what works best for you. Is that alright? It's not often we get men coming in here to try on stuff, so I'm actually pretty excited."

Validation sours through George's chest at the comment, and looks down at the floor with a soft smile. "Of course, I think that'd be perfect."

And before George is truly conscious in the living moment, the employee is urging him forward into the boutique, speaking about what he can do for George and other things that George gets lost in as he observes the glimmering dresses around them. There's a room he's taken into, a small one that has a tall mirror and a side table with soft measuring tape.

"What are your preferences when it comes to style, George?" The man asks, and George barely remembers him telling the man his name. 

"Um," George chews on his lip to stifle an awkward smile, which he's sure makes it even more awkward, "I don't really know. Is that okay?"

The man's smile is bigger than ever as he answers, "Of course! We'll see what you like and go from there."

His kindness does not go unappreciated, making it so much easier to believe that everything thought about earlier may not be true. It's still nerve-wracking, the idea of wearing such a feminine product, but his comfort thrives.

Soon, after the employee is done setting things up, he's taken through a myriad of measuring procedures, from his waist to his shoulders and everything in between. He's asked questions like his height and weight, and if he likes poufy dresses or slim—to which he answered anything really, because he has no clue what he looks good in. 

Throughout it all the man so nice, inclusive and George wishes the whole world was like this. He wishes there was a space in his brain for this amount of inclusivity to keep for himself. 

Smiles are exchanged through light conversation, meaningful discussion on feminine clothing and the way they’re shaped to fit men nowadays. The man talks about how proud of society he is, being the new lack of toxic masculinity and gender norms. George relishes in it, and tries so hard to believe it. 

He’s apart of this change.

Yet even with that in mind, he can’t help but want this for himself too. He wants to wear a dress, not only to progress society’s standards for men, but to look good. He feels all the more confident now that he’s been shown the truth through optimistic words and an employee’s glee to work with a male client. 

“Alright George, I’ve got these measurements now, so you are good to go to your boyfriend—or uh—friend, sorry. Is that right?”

George can’t help but laugh, cheeks rosy with the acknowledgement of the Dream situation. One that he thought was obvious by the way Dream held him tight earlier to steady his nerves. “No, uh, he’s my boyfriend.”

The man laughs nervously, slivering a hand through his short hair and nodding. “Wonderful. I’ll give you a handful of dresses to try on in the dressing rooms in a moment, yeah?”

The brunet nods and he’s escorted out of the small room, immediately catching sight of Dream sitting on an armchair by the entrance. He waves him over and they are both walked to another room, one by the back, one that’s only slightly bigger than the measuring room.

They walk in, surrounded by dark purple walls that carry vintage paintings and flowery, aligned décor. There’s a small sofa in the corner and opposing it is a curtain, long and velvet burgundy. And this must be only one of the many dressing rooms. 

Dream is quick to slot an arm around George's hip again, pulling him close and kissing his temple while they sit on the sofa together. "How'd it go?"

George sits on his hands with his legs crossed as he leans forward, bobbing his foot up and down as a familiar, buzzy feeling roams the notorious maze of his bones. "It was nice, we did some measuring," he explains, "and we're going to try on some dresses in a second."

The other nods with intrigue, smiling softly. He leans into George's side eagerly. "I told you. You're gonna look great baby."

George scoffs, blushing a gentle crimson that feels all but foreign. 

"Shut up," he pesters with a roll of his eyes, jittery as his leg continues to bounce. The warm palm of Dream's hand presses into his waist with the intent to calm him. But he's not nervous, not anymore.

The man comes back in moments later and completely ignores their presence as he pushes aside the curtain and lays inside a bundle of folded dresses, colors dark and some light, but soft and glittery all the same. George watches him until he comes out, smiling down at the two who sit, now spiked in attention. 

"Alright boys, I put some dresses in there, so feel free to go crazy. Let me know if you need anything, please! And if you have a special preference, let me know and I can find more options for you," he smiles somehow brighter, and right before he leaves, George barely sees him wink on his way out. A rush of excitement fills George's insides, standing up, unable to hold back the urge to go look at the dresses.

He can't even say thank you, because the employee is gone too fast, out like a light.

When he pushes the curtain aside, it closes just as fast, and Dream doesn't say anything. The dresses are spread out on a long bench inside the smaller changing room, ones of different lengths, ones that accidentally drag on the floor and ones that are folded over, their lace overlaying the front of it. There's oddly no mirror, but that issue simmers into his gut without looking back. 

George doesn't know what to do first. So he closes his eyes tight, and reaches for the first piece of fabric his fingers can reach as he leans forward blindly. Everything up to this point had been blind but it wasn't truly noticeable until everything had gone dark. 

When he holds up the first dress to hang in front of him, his eyes open and there isn't a particular way to describe his emotions at the sight of it. It's long and green, a mint green, one that reminds him of soft lakes reflected by the gentle flow of nature surrounding it. It's a V-neck, one that plunges low, and it slowly gets more flowy the more it progresses to George's knees. It seems to have tie by the center, currently dangling apart and dotted on the end by a gold bead on each string. The back straps are a bit thin where they're meant to overlap, but at this point, George has no worries about it fitting him. 

It's a good first choice, so George starts undressing.

Figuring out the dress is a bit difficult at first, confused as to how to go about putting it on, but it's figured out easily once the straps are pushed aside and he focuses on stepping inside where it unzips. 

The feeling of being fully inside the dress doesn't feel as surreal anymore, but it feels more right. Each strap pulls up his shoulders snugly, dipping over his back and hanging loosely where its meant to be tied. His chest feels exposed but in such a way that makes him feel bold. Confident, so much that he wants to show Dream immediately.

Perhaps he can, because when he wraps his arms around backwards, the strings dangle too far out of reach and makes it impossible to tie at his waist. Biting his lip, George peels the curtain open and pokes his head out. 

"Dream?"

The blond's head tilts upwards at the sound of his boyfriend's shy voice, eyes locking on his pale face sticking out the changing room. "Yeah?"

An easy scatter of pink dots the brunet's cheeks as he steps a foot outside. "I need help tying the back of this thing."

He almost, almost, laughs when Dream stands up overwhelmingly quick, ready to help with an eager smirk. "Of course."

And when George steps out, bushy but soft material of lace and cotton swaying around his ankles, Dream's face pales out with an expression George can't place at first. His eyes widen, his face reddens, and his eyelashes flutter. Deeply, in awe.

"George..." he mumbles, stepping forward with his hands instinctively reaching out, but unsure what for. The other blushes as he turns around, making sure that Dream doesn't pull him by the hips, and instead reaches for the string he's meant to tie. 

"What?" George teases, looking behind him so the sight of Dream's admiring face doesn't disappear from view. 

A second passes of careful breathing, contemplated thinking. Dream's dark voice takes George by pleasant surprise. "Looks pretty."

It's impossible to not feel warm now, warm with Dream's hands right in front of his skin that vibrates enough heat prompting him to melt, warm with the sensation of compliments that fill his veins with lightheaded serenity. It makes him want to be surrounded with this kind of love forever, whether he was thrown together with feminine laced fabric or not. It was always enough.

When it's fitted nice on his waist, George turns around finally, grinning softly. Dream's lips gape open at the sight of him, small and drowned in jade. He feels like a mistress in a field, a runaway bride who dances in a meadow late at night, under the moon and she wonders where everything went wrong but content with how it went, because she's free.

George lets himself be pulled into a kiss, one that's soft and simply reminding of how free he really is, here. Then Dream pulls away so he can lure George to the side, facing them towards a tall mirror. George sees himself, he sees himself as a whole. All dressed up and pretty.

God it feels so right. Almost perfect, but not quite. 

His hair is swirled in a kind mixed amount of directions, swerving in front of his forehead but it makes him feel even more free that he doesn't mind. His chest is pale, exposed and dusted in light pink, but generous with how it contrasts nonetheless. Dream's pupils beam whenever he scans his body, numerous times to be exact, eyes not wasting another moment to observe the pretty boy in front of him and his reflection.

"Do you like it?" He asks, curious.

George's smile swells. "I do. I really do."

A soft chuckle escapes Dream's mouth. "Not like the $20 one?"

George scoffs, but the corners of his lips never fall. "No, no. Better."

He stares for a few more moments, turning ever so slightly to watch it shift around his hips, flowy and long around his legs to leave just his ankles exposed. He would prefer a little bit more skin, he thinks. But this is nice too.

But you can have this now, you can try new things. 

The idea bursts in his brain, and without thinking twice, George heads back to the changing room on quick feet and he shoves the curtain closed. He gently peels the dress off of him, hanging it nicely on a metal beam near his head, then looking down and rummaging through the dresses again. He observes each one, all denounced in colors that are primary or pastel, dipped in glitter or gold and relished in laces or velvets. They're all soft in between his fingers, making it extremely hard to choose which one to put on next.

But they have all the time in the world. 

He picks another, a more random-chosen dress this time, but something more slim. More formal occasioned, one more business-stricken. It only goes down to his knees this time, nothing longer. Gorgeous all the same.

Man, George might really have an infatuation for dresses.

The material, he notices, is velvet, soft and dry on his fingers but rich in its touch. The color is bold and dark, one that he would call his favorite. Putting it on is tight, but when it's fully on he feels hot. Sexy, even. He can feel the way it curves into his hips and holds high on his shoulders with sleeves thick but sturdily lean. This one will make his top 10, for sure.

He makes a show out of it when his fingers grasp at the blood curtains, peeling them open and sticking a leg through to show his entrance, biting back a laugh as he smirks. He feels like Marilyn, for once, but darker than ever before. The devil to her angel. 

"Blue," Dream says at the sight of him, his own lips curling into a sinister grin. It's dangerous, lust filling out his eyes. "You've always looked good in blue."

The words burn with forbidden want, ones that feels wrong in this setting. He can't tell if it's because of the new dresses, the new outfits, the new strangers or the new rooms and everything new in between. But he feels that without their confessions turned into whispers, they would be caught.

George can't help the giggle that leaves his chest after a bit as he curls in on himself, turning into the mirror and admiring the way the fabric feels on his skin and helps outline his curves to portray it all to the world. He may even be on top of it, at this point. It feels better than his causal crop top and jeans that made him feel ditzy, but this one made him feel more desirable and striking in so many ways. He can feel his thighs pushing against the soft length of the dress, but enough where its fitting and loose on his body. 

He feels selfish for saying that he looks stunning. But he feels less that way when Dream stares complimentary daggers into his form. 

And George hadn't even noticed the slit in the fabric on his thigh until Dream reaches out and flicks at it with his finger, simply admiring with gaping lips. "Bold, Georgie."

The brunet rolls his eyes and hesitates to push Dream away, a reaction he has grown used to when teasing erupted in their dynamic.

But Dream only latches further onto George's hips, delicate hands resting on them to keep himself still, his smile devious. The brunet's breath hitches at the close contact, feeling the tension rise immensely. 

"Dream— I— you can't just—" George's own hands are forced to come up and grip the blond's shoulders for stability as he's slowly brought closer, leant backwards because Dream stalks forward into his chest. His warmth screams to keep them close, so quick to ease the excitement that has filled up inside of him all day. "Dream..."

"You look so beautiful baby," Dream whispers, a taunt in disguise. It's too wanting, so much that George can feel the desperation radiating from him in waves of lust. Did he really cause that from him? But George can't think like this right now, he can't, not here. Although he wants to so, so bad. 

He feels a kiss coming along, so George removes himself quickly. The reminisce of hot breath searing across his lips, disappears into the cold when he turns around and walks away from Dream, biting his lip to stifle a giggle at the idea of what just happened. It all goes away way too fast, in a way that makes it very hard not to laugh. 

Dream pouts and crosses his arms, obviously disappointed but the expression is something George finds himself often familiar with. 

"Dream," George tuts, "I have to try on more dresses. You can have me at home."

The blond scoffs light. "Not soon enough," and it follows with him rolling his eyes, the gesture so mature for his arrogance.

But George ignores his want as he heads back into the changing room, opting to put this dress aside for a later purchase, something that could prove very worthy in the future.

He goes through so many dresses, so many flouncy ones of blue pink and gold. Ones that go down to his ankles and ones that ride up his thigh. Off the shoulder to long-sleeve, making his slender form pop out like a beautiful statue, bones imperfect and features exaggerated with every soft smile as he looks at himself. He has never had this much fun trying on clothes before. Not only because it's so new, but it feels so magical. 

Every time he comes out he's greeted with a seated Dream who quirks his lip whenever a new style is tried on the brunet, and no matter his liking to it, he kisses George's lips and desperately drags them down his cheek and chin because Dream can't really help himself when his skin looks so milky contrasted to the vast range of colors. 

One he really liked was a long, midnight black, velvet dress going down to the bottom of his thighs, with mesh lantern sleeves that curled at his wrist where it proofed around the bone. It's pinched at his collarbone and down to his bellybutton, but with no intent for breasts which only makes George feel more accepted. This really was the place to go to.

There were more, like light blue, plaid dresses tied up at his chest with sleeves flounced above his elbow, red slim dresses that were silk and soft along his body that enunciated his legs quite greatly, and even pure white dresses that were sleeveless and laced from the top to the bottom, making him feel like he was at prom, with all the lights on him. 

Dream made it ten times better, twirling him around and laughing when George posed or curtsied, popping his hip out as he giggled and unintentionally blossomed sweet pink on his cheeks. He wouldn't be here without Dream— literally, because George couldn't drive. But it was nice to do this with him, knowing he could have trust, knowing that Dream was here for whenever the brunet needed something important to make his heart beat a little easier. 

He really shouldn't be greedy. But the dresses he was wearing made him feel like the most perfect boy for Dream. 

The perfect boy for himself.

As he's sliding another dress up his legs, it automatically feels weird and the ruffled sleeves sort of catch him off guard. It's not something he particularly expects in a dress, but he trusts the process and he fits the sleeves over his shoulders. He walks through the curtain again and hesitantly walks over to the mirror, ignoring his boyfriend's presence for a moment whilst he studies the new type of dress. 

When he turns, Dream's head is tilted, eyes slightly squinting as if he's forming his own opinion. George smiles.

“This one isn’t comfortable on me, I don’t think,” he suggests, squirming in his place and fiddling with the ruffle sliding down his armpits. It's not horrible, it's just not him. 

Dream softens and steps forward, a sudden change from earlier. “Well you don’t have to like every dress, baby. You can try something different.”

The brunet turns around to face his boyfriend, eyebrows pinching together with confusion. There's an immediate reach to comfort that's obviously nudging at Dream, which makes him think that Dream still sees a part of George that's insecure about the whole dress situation. 

But that's not happening anymore. If anything, he feels really good. 

"I know, I know..." and with rising intrigue and his teasing nature threatening to trace his features, George lifts his hands to Dream’s cheeks, squeezing softly. Dream naturally leans into it. “But you can like, be honest. Does it look bad on me?”

Dream laughs nervously, raising his own arms to wrap around George's waist wearing a hesitant smile, questionable like he's hiding something. “No, of course not. I love you in everything.”

A sigh leaves George's lips as he turns around in the bigger man's hold so they face the mirror together, the hands on his hips loosening slightly. “Cmon dream! Tell me what you really think about it,” George winces at the sight of himself, pinching at the material sticking on his hips and the weird ruffle that falls in front of his shoulders. 

The gentle blush dusted on Dream's cheeks makes it hard not to tease the bond harder.

Awkwardly, Dream tightens his jaw before he answers, “Okay, well, it looks a little odd on you. But you always look good.”

"Dream! " 

“Okay okay fine. It looks uh... weird."

George raises his eyebrows at him through their reflection, testing him.

Dream crumbles. “But you should buy what you want, not what I want.”

The brit rolls his eyes immediately, laughing tautly, “Whatever, you doormat,” he taunts, walking off into the room again, wearing an annoyed smirk too good to be true because not much sooner, it falls into something softer and cheesier, everything making him feel mushy inside.

Dream’s light giggles fill the room behind him, and he can swear he hears Dream mutter something along the lines of, "I'm not even lying because you do look good in everything." But George tries not to let his rising ego cause him to start making things up, and instead he bites his lip, trying to contain the butterflies fluttering in his throat.

The next dress he picks up reads a tag of $200. Expensive. Good thing he's only trying things on, chuckling to himself at the thought. 

But when he holds the dress a little heavier, majesticity flies through his fingertips, fabric warm to the touch and lacey as it intertwines between each finger. It's lace and pink, flowy and beautifully long. Until he realizes it's not lace, they are flowers. Floral stitching that threads along the thulian, ruby material. It almost feels like the one, before he had even put it on. 

He's careful when pulling it up his body, the dress soft on his skin like it's something not to be messed with, rare and pure to the touch. Once it's fully on, it takes a moment to adjust, but the way it falls on his shoulders almost feels unreal. As if he wasn't here, doing this, swaying the dress around his hips like he's a fairy. He certainly feels like one with the way it moves and dangles above his knees, straps thin and neckline dipped and smooth. If only he had heels or boots, would everything come together. Some white doc martens would suit it nicely. 

The curtain isn't as soft as the dress when he grips it, but once it's pulled open, Dream's mouth nearly drops. 

"George," the blond says lowly, lifting a hand to pull it through his hair with awe. 

"What?" George's eyes widen like a doe, confused but filled with delight as he stares back. Dream's got him stuck there with his pupils practically drilling right into him, but in a way that's comfortable. George lets a laugh slip as Dream's face goes blank. He walks forward to the mirror again and turns his body around, keeping his eyes trained on his figure. 

He fits almost perfectly in the dress, curvy along his waist and making his chest feel small but small in such way that highlights his skin deliriously. The pink is gentle and golden with carnation, the flowers a shade darker, more like a bleeding amaranth. It's wonderful. George thinks this might be his peak.

Hands on George's hips startle him, sending a spark of hot electricity up his body, twitching around to smile giddily at Dream who leans in close and kisses his cheek. "You are so beautiful. Do you see it?"

George rolls his eyes and looks back, smile dropping as he melts on the spot at the sight of Dream holding him close, staring at him like a prey in the dark. Hauntingly pleasant. 

The arms wrap around tighter so they hold his waist, expectantly looking right into George's eyes. The brunet nods timidly. How else would he be able to react?

"Yeah," Dream whispers, "my beautiful boy. Told you you'd like amazing."

"Whatever," George replies breathless, leaning back into his chest with airy, lidded eyes. It's all he can muster, all protected like this. His chest thumps in mild beats, unsure and steady. He can feel the anticipation in his toes when hot breath scorches across his jawline. He turns his head so he connects eyes with the blond, who is leaning in ever so close. 

Brown eyes flicker down to pale lips, and back up to see Dream smirk even closer, foreheads barely touching. He aches to force the distance to finally disappear, but something about waiting makes him feel jittery in his chest, wanting.

And the final hint that it's happening, is the soft wave of breath falling from parted lips above him, then Dream slowly putting their lips together, a deep press turning him into mush. Their eyes close on impact and George sighs into the kiss, relieved and so so warm. George stretches his neck to lure him in deeper, rocked onto his heels with how far Dream presses into him. It's hungry, passionate in the reunitement of their lips, but slow as if not to waste. Fueled by the wanting looks passed along throughout the afternoon, always staring so kindly but beneath it all there was always more.

George wanted to kiss him forever. He would never lose interest with the way Dream kisses him, always so firm and reminding that he has someone to lean on. He was hurried with it, sometimes, but it never lost that flame, that softness they both craved. 

And he's reminded of that again, so he can't help it when after a little bit, George's cheeks heat up and he smiles into the kiss, making Dream pull them apart. His eyes are relaxed and in love, smirking back.

George turns back around to face the mirror again, holding onto Dream's forearms for balance. "Maybe I should put you in a dress sometime," he comments as he crosses his legs, smug in his tone as he grins deviously.

Dream raises an eyebrow, humming with thought. However, he doesn't really seem to consider it. "No way," he's fast to retreat with a cheerful smile, "I think I'd prefer a suit."

Unfortunately, George is quick for his mind to fill with imaginations, Dream all dressed up in a black suit and tie, slacks that fit tight on his thighs and are accompanied with pointy dress shoes that look at him with a sharpness daunting and handsome. His expression goes thin and flushed, grunting a murmured, "Fuck," at the pure thought of Dream looking like that.

The taller's smirk makes him roll his eyes, playfully frustrated as Dream begins laughing heartfully, chest shaking as he smothers the brunet tighter into him. Perfectly domestic, he thinks, as their bodies press together. An experience he wasn't expecting to have with his boyfriend, but there wasn't a single complaint playing in his mind.

When his eyes glance again at the outfit, he remembers, doubtfully, that there's not much they can do about actually buying the dress. The frown was inevitable rising on George's face, distraught eyes looking over himself. Dream almost doesn't notice it, but it's really hard to miss.

"You okay?"

The soft tone makes George frown more, shrugging.

"George," Dream echoes, sternly. The brunet huffs through his nose, stiffening in the blond's hold. He knows he shouldn't bottle, since it only makes things worse.

"This dress really is the one," he exhales, lips tweaking into a sad smile. His face darkens, carressed an admiral blue mourn. 

Dream's arms weaken around George's waist. "Then why are you upset?"

He doesn't know how to answer, he doesn't know how to not sound selfish, after all of this.

George steps forward, eyes locked with Dream through the mirror as he reaches behind him and toys with the fabric on his neck, feeling underneath the hem with his thumb while he searches for a thin cotton strand. Dream seems to get the hint, eyes squinting as he confirms one last time before lifting his hands and looking for it himself.

The tag is pulled out eventually, displaying an extra threaded paper that reads, "$204". 

When he looks back up, his eyes deadpan the smaller in disbelief. "George," he nearly scoffs, eyebrows raising. "I can literally buy this for you, are you kidding?"

George seems taken aback by his compressed expression, immediately shaking his head and pulling away. "No, no you can't. You won't I mean, you won't. I wouldn't let you do that—"

"George," Dream interrupts again, touching George's arm so he turns around, urgency filling every muscle to calm the boy down. "It's okay, I will buy it for you. I will buy you like 50 dresses, I swear—"

"Dream please—"

"I'm gonna do it you idiot, it's not even that much," Dream starts laughing, cheeks beaming, almost like he's teasing him on purpose, almost like he's sure of it. It's annoying. 

George's lips gape open with frustration, scoffing and stepping backward as if it'll give him an upper hand, a myriad of emotions taking over him. "No you aren't Dream, I can live without a stupid dress—" and while he's rambling, Dream's getting closer, body heat apparent as he steps into his space again and again. "—if you buy me a $100 dollar dress, let alone 50 dresses, I'm gonna fucking—"

A searing hand grips onto the back of his neck, taking him completely off guard, and wasting no time by yanking him in and smashing their lips together, muffling George's words that's replaced with a gasp and a confused huff. It's hot and confusing, a little bit messy but coordinated with surprise as George kisses back, just because it comes natural to him. His breath is stolen away successfully, lips and tongues mashing with need. George gets dizzier the longer it goes on, and he hadn't even noticed his intense grip on the taller's shoulders while he's rushing back in for more after every retreat for breath.

He whines when Dream pulls away, leaving them both panting quietly, but more so George who is still filled with surprise from the encounter.

Dream's still close, their breaths mingling in the minimal distance between their lips. His voice is deep and rough, whispering with a little bit of a bite to his tone, "I'm going to buy it for you. I don't care what you say."

Stubborn and flustered, George huffs, resting his forehead into the junction of Dream's neck and shoulder. "You're an idiot."

The blond hums as he wraps around him, methodically swaying. "What, for loving you? For wanting to treat you?"

He's almost insufferable, like this. Teasing but somehow still reading George's mind like the back of his hand. 

"No," George mumbles, his voice vibrating into Dream's skin. "For knowing how to get me to shut up. But it's still a lot of money."

Dream sighs, slipping a hand up into the back of George's hair and sliding it around, making it even more messier than before to George's dismay. "It's really not a big deal you know. I've bought more expensive things."

A disappointed tut leaves the smaller's mouth in disagreement. "Yeah but those things were important."

The hand in George's hair suddenly pulls, gentle but firm and the boy looks backward, surprise glimmering in his brown irises. "This is important George. I could see how happy you looked in that dress and I could tell that this is something you want. For fucks sake, you deserve it. And now you're going to pick out at least 3 more dresses or we're not coming back."

George's mouth gapes open pathetically, a little bit scared because he can't spot a single drop of tease in his voice any longer. But he nods anyway, gulping away the fear and feeling the hand soften on his scalp again. Despite the firmness in his tone, George's mouth tweaks into a smirk.

"You sound like my dad."

Dream officially pulls away with a quirked eyebrow and a playful grin that matches. He places a haste kiss on his lips and looks down at him, on the verge of laughing again. "Please don't compare me to your father."

George starts giggling, sliding down to grip the collar of Dream's shirt as his head tilts back with soft laughter. He feels even more giggly with the dress on his body, and now the dress he gets to keep, all thanks to Dream. He couldn't feel luckier than this.

When they actually move apart, George goes back into the changing room to change back into his clothes, and after trying on so many dresses, it feels weird to change back into jeans and a hoodie. But he's comfortable, and even more comfortable for the fact that he'll have dresses to wear at home now, ones that make him feel good instead of weak and unfitting. He'll have to come back here again, another time to try on even more dresses, not to buy but just to feel. To explore. 

And if things didn't go wrong, he wouldn't have been here, collecting dresses like it was a hobby. Perhaps it was. 

He picks out the remaining three, the first green one he tried on, the blue fancy one, and the black lantern sleeve dress that was velvet all the way to his knees, daring and perfect. He carries them out to Dream and places it aside so he can reach up to the blond and grasp his jaw with his nimble fingers.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," He murmurs and leans upward to peck Dream's face all over, receiving jubilant giggles in response that almost turn into a wheeze. The delightful noise travels to his ears and rumbles throughout his skin, making him feel even more grateful to have this man by his side.

"Always my love," Dream leans back and decides to fix George's hair, just to make it a little more reasonably clean. 

"I don't know how else to thank you," George frowns as he looks down so Dream has easier access. "Unless... I could thank you at home?"

Dream coughs out a laugh at the statement, hands going still as his chest tightens with joy. "That's okay baby, seeing you today was thank you enough," he decides, moving dark, brown strands back into a comfortable pattern. "But I won't say no to your idea, of course."

George laughs in return, leaning into him and then looking up again when he feels his hair is done right. His hand lifts and holds Dream's neck, smiling kindly. "I love you."

The smile is returned gracefully, cheesy and bright. "I love you too. Now let's go checkout and get on home."

They leave the cool dressing room and the employee greets them again, noticing their choice of dresses and serving them kindly like usual. It's nice, calm and the afternoon folds together perfectly. George blocks out the price from his ears when Dream checks out, 4 boxes stacked together as they're handed to Dream, bowed and careful sitting in his hands now. They look so delicate, and George realizes that they are. They're perfect, because they're for him. They're for everyone, boys too, and maybe George should have known that from the start.

But it's okay now, because he's going home happy, excited, and hopelessly in love.